Prodigal Father

At last Steve felt he'd gotten the dimensions just right on the sailing sloop they were building for the Connecticut banker. He'd been concentrating for hours on the task. This was the project that should put them into the black for the year, and it was barely October yet.

It had been a good year. Sonny had left him in March, but Raul had hired up in the wake of Sonny's departure, and Raul was every bit the man Sonny had been and more. The tall, beefy Cuban émigré had the talented hands for all of the tasks Steve had for him—around the Shrimp Cove Boat Builders yard and, just as important, in Steve's bed. This was the fourth man Steve had had in the nine years since he left Baltimore and came down to Key West, where the hot men to be had were plenty. And although Steve was pushing his fifties, he still kept a forceful and willing twenty-something hunk around to make him feel young. It had been his good fortune that the last two—Sonny and Raul—had both been expert boat builders. It helped Steve to focus his activities.

Steve stood and looked down at the drawings spread across his work table. He was pleased with the morning's work. The Connecticut banker was getting himself one honey of a yacht. And he was buying at just the right time too. The downturn in the market made materials cheaper, and so many of the big boat builders up and down the East Coast had bitten the dust that the smaller, more specialized operations like Steve's had more breathing room. All they needed was just a couple of yachts like this a year and they were sitting pretty. And the banker was good for the money. What he had already written a cleared check for was more than enough in itself to keep Steve in business until he had to scrounge up another sugar daddy in the new year.

Steve laughed. The Connecticut banker had been quite a sugar daddy too. Raul had taken care of him when he'd come down to the keys. By the time he went back up to New England, he would have done anything for Raul.

Yes, indeed, Raul was a real asset.

With the thought of Raul, Steve lifted his face toward the double-wide garage door that opened the design and construction floor of the ship-building works. He looked out onto the marina on Stork Island, the last key save Key West down the chain of islands strung out between the Florida tip and Cuba. The sunshine streaming through the bay doors was strong and hot, and Steve gauged the breeze—of which there was practically none—by the slight swaying of the two palm trees between the office building and the business' dock and slipway.

As he looked, his eyes narrowed and his heart began to race as Raul sauntered up and stood, leaning, at the corner of the open bay. He'd been working in the hot sun, finishing a sailboat for a local customer. And he looked hot in more ways than one. The rays of the sun made him little more than a silhouette from where Steve stood, leaning over his drawing table, but Raul was body beautiful in a tableau like this. He was wearing only shorts, and his dark skin was even more golden from the tanning of the fleeting summer in the keys. All muscle and beef and a full head of black curls. The sultry look of the Caribbean. His casual stance and his torso taut from the pull of his arm resting over his head on the frame of the doorway sent flames of arousal through Steve's body, and he began to breathe heavily.

"God, it's hot out here, mon. Time for a beer break?"

"Sure," Steve answered tightly. "Take one from the fridge and bring me one too, please. I just finished the Walker specs. I think we have a winner."

It would be good to have a beer, but what Steve really wanted was Raul over here, behind the table with him. Giving attention to the raging arousal he'd given Steve merely by standing in the doorway in the sunlight.

"Oh, I think Walker can't help but be pleased," Raul said as he sauntered over to the drawing table with two open bottles of Corona dangling from one of his hands.

"Yes, thanks to you."

"Thanks to Mighty Moe," Raul said and then he laughed.

Steve laughed too. That's what Raul called it. Might Moe. And mighty it certainly was.

Raul stood close behind Steve and set a beer for Steve down on a square of space on the surface of the drawing board that wasn't covered with drawing and spec charts. His other hand snaked around Steve's waist and palmed Steve's flat belly after snaking up under the hem of his Polo shirt. Raul took a full pull on his beer bottle while Steve's breathing turned raspy and he began to tremble.

"Let me see what you've drawn," Raul said, as he came in even closer behind Steve and looked over his shoulders at the charts and drawings on the surface of the table. "Yes, very nice. I think we will enjoy building this one."

"Raul," Steve whispered, with what emitted from his mouth being more of a groan than a spoken word. He was leaning over the table, arms wide, supporting his weight on the heels of his hands, legs splayed, because he felt Mighty Moe, all ready for action, at the small of his back, stroking up and down along his spine. Raul knew full well what he was doing—and how it would be received.

Young, hot, muscled, virile. Steve had given up a normal life in Baltimore for this. A family, a reputation, more than half a fortune. And at this moment, it had all been worthwhile. God, he loved Key West. No end of young, hung talent. No worries if one took a walk. There would always be another one—or at least there would be as long as he had money and kept his own body in shape.

"Raul," he rasped.

"Time for more than a beer break, mon?" And then that happy, deep-throated laugh. Raul knew his worth—his talents. And he enjoyed life to the fullest.

Both of Raul's hands were free now. They were working Steve's belt buckle and his zipper, and then they were pulling his trousers down off his legs. Mighty Moe was already free, and Steve began to moan at the feel of the power and heft of it at the small of his back.

"Raul," he whimpered.

"What is it you want, Mon? Tell Raul." And then he laughed again. A husky laugh.

"Fuck me, Raul. Please."

"Here, now? It's cost you some cotton. You know that. You know what I like."

"Yes. Yes. Yes." Steve reached down and fumbled with the drawer under the rim of the drafting table and pulled out the lube and one of the condoms he kept there and dropped them on the table within Raul's reach. This wasn't a unique scene in the construction hall. Steve enjoyed being taken in various parts of the hall. Raul wasn't taking liberties.

Raul didn't answer. He just laughed and reached over and picked up an Exacto knife from the drafting table.

Steve trembled, as he felt Raul pull away from him and heard the ripping sound the knife made behind him in the briefs he was still wearing.

Raul flipped the knife back onto the table and squeezed lube out onto his hand and then, as Steve leaned over the table, arms wide, supporting his body, Raul palmed his belly with his free hand and Steve began to grunt and groan as thick, slick fingers snaked through the slit in his briefs and entered him and began to open him up to the power of Mighty Moe.

With trembling hands Steve took up the condom package and slit it open and freed the condom for Raul to take up when he was ready.

Steve felt like Raul had his whole fist up there now, and he was hyperventilating and moaning and moving his butt on the invading fingers. He didn't notice when Raul had taken up the condom and rolled it on Mighty Moe, but the strength of Raul entering him almost lifted Steve up off the floor and would have slammed his chest down on top of his yacht drawings, if Raul wasn't palming his belly with a strong support hand.

"Oh Shit, Raul. Yesssss!" Steve cried out. Raul hunched his chest over Steve's shoulder blades and gripped Steve's wrists with his fists and fucked hard and fast up into Steve's ass. And then slow and deep. Steve moaned and moaned and moaned as Raul fucked on, breathing heavily now and still laughing, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Steve almost collapsed on the table as he came, but Raul moved his hands in time to Steve's side, a finger on either side reaching for and finding and rubbing Steve's nipples under his Polo shirt as Raul rode on and on.

Steve looked out toward the marina as he held there, in exhaustion, while the young and vigorous Raul continued to plow him through the hole he'd rent in Steve's briefs.

The figure of another man was silhouetted in the door. A young, lithe man. Blond and tanned. He was peering into the interior of the construction hall, but it was debatable what he could see—and what he could discern was happening over the drafting table—because of the dimness of the interior and the brightness of the sun beaming into the door.

"Be . . . with you . . . in . . . a minute," Steve managed to vocalize, hoping that his voice sounded somewhat normal. "Wait by the dock . . . Please. Be . . . with . . . in . . ."

Steve hoped the moan he gave as Mighty Moe pulled out of him and the condom was jerked off and Steve felt the wetness spread up the small of his back wasn't audible as far as the doorway.

The young man turned and disappeared from the doorway. Raul laughed and went back to finger fucking Steve through the hole in his briefs—just long enough to establish that he was finished when he wanted to be finished. Steve loved this aspect of the younger man.

* * * *

"Yes, may I help you?" The young man didn't look like a buyer. He's was too young, for starters, and he was leaning against a venerable Camaro, which looked like a speed ticketer's delight. "Are you interested in a boat? . . . or maybe employment."

The young man leaned against his car and gave Steve a searching look back. He was a very presentable young man, just the type Steve liked. Young, and hunky. Blond, with curly hair and a chiseled face and torso. He wore his T-shirt and jeans and moccasins without socks well.

"Umm, maybe employment," the young man said. But he said it almost like a question, and in faltering tones, like maybe there was something else heavy on his mind. Steve didn't think it was because he saw that Steve was being fucked by Raul just now—at least Steve hoped not. The interior of the drafting and construction hall was dark and the young man hadn't come inside. From the doorway, it would have just looked like Steve was hunched over the drafting table. And if the outline of Raul behind him could have been seen, it would have only looked like Raul was looking at the material on the table top over his shoulder. Surely, Steve thought. Surely, that's the most that it would have looked like.

And, anyway, the young man hadn't left. So he must not have been embarrassed by anything.

"You old enough to work?" Steve asked. He didn't need any more workers, but this guy was gorgeous. It wouldn't hurt not to just say no and send him off.

"Yeah, I'm nineteen. Nineteen in June. June 19th." Again that searching look, but then he shrugged and said, "Old enough."

"Know anything about boat building."

"A bit. My old man is a boat builder." The young guy was looking at Steve as if Steve was supposed to know something he didn't.

"From around here?" Steve asked.

"No. I'm down from Maryland." That pregnant pause again.

Steve was beginning to feel like this was pulling teeth.

"Got a name?"

"Ty. Ty Taylor." He pronounced it like it was some sort of answer to a million-dollar TV quiz question.

"Well, hello, Ty. I'm Steve." Somehow the name sounded familiar, and Steve went over the names of customers and local families. There were a lot of Taylors around. He was always being stopped and asked if he was related to so and so. He didn't want to just turn the guy around if he was here through a connection that meant something to the well-being of Steve's company.

"Yes, I know your name . . . You don't recognize me at all, do you?"

His voice sounded a bit piqued and Steve looked at him sharply, his mind racing. But the young man's mouth was faster than Steve's post-fucked brain could compete with.

"Ty Taylor. Your son." The young man said it with a hardness and bitterness that slapped Steve right in the face.

"Oh," he muttered. "I'm sorry. It's just such a surprise. So much time . . . how's . . . how's your mother?"

"She's dead. Cancer. Went fast. I need a place to stay until I can regroup, and boat building is what I do in Baltimore."

Steve felt the presence of Raul at the door to the drafting and construction hall, and when he looked around, he saw that Raul was looking at the young man—his son—rather than at him.

* * * *

"You can't stay here, son."

"You were about to hire me before you found out I was your son. Is it because of who you are? What you do? Why you left us?"

"I couldn't stay in Baltimore," Steve answered, a note of defensiveness in his voice. "It would have hurt you and your mother more if I had stayed. And I took care of you—both of you."

"You didn't even know who I was," Ty answered softly. "You didn't recognize the name you gave your own son. And you didn't know mother was dead."

"It was best," Steve said stubbornly. "My activities were blown all across the newspapers. He was a deputy mayor, for Christ's sake. It was best that I just leave."

"You didn't answer my question," Ty now said. "You were about to hire me before you found out I was your son. What makes my presence as your son rather than just another workman so impossible?"

Steve said nothing, so Ty picked up the conversation again.

"Is it because of that guy standing in the doorway? The guy who was fucking you when I started to enter your office? Is that why you don't want a son around? Because I know men fuck you? You can't get it up if your son is here?"

Each accusation was like a hard slap across Steve's face, and he lowered his head and couldn't look at his son.

"If that's it, I know you fuck men. I came here for a job, for someplace where I can shack up for a while and take stock and see what I want to do in life. I didn't come here to pass judgment or try to keep you from doing what you want to do. You proved where your priorities were when you left us in Baltimore and came down here. I just need a job and a roof over my head for a few months, god damn it."

"You got money for a meal or do you need some?" Steve said.

"I got money. Money's not the problem. You sent us money."

"Well, go get something to eat and come back in an hour or two and I'll be ready to show you where the house is. There's a room. But I share a room with Raul over there. If you have a problem with that, don't come back."

"I don't have a problem with that," Ty answered.

Steve turned and walked back to the office, his heart thumping in his chest, his feet feeling like lead, every ounce of him screaming out that this wouldn't work.

As he walked past Raul, the Cuban put a hand on his arm. He was grinning. "New tail in town? He's a cutie." Then he lifted a pair of ripped cotton briefs to his face and took a good whiff of his trophy.

"Don't even start with me," Steve hissed through clinched teeth.

* * * *

Miracle of miracles, it turned out that Ty knew his way around a boatyard and also was the model of discretion in Steve's house.

He didn't lay a guilt trip on the father who had deserted him and jilted his mother for another man—well, for a series of men, most of them young enough to be Ty's brother.

Ty came with boat-making skills, but under the tutelage of Raul on the construction line, his talents and abilities blossomed even further.

The months rolled by. By Christmas, Steve had decided that he wanted to have Ty around and that he loved making boats as much as his dad did. In early spring, Steve stood out in front of the drafting and construction hall as sign makers hoisted a new sign over the bay doors and hammered it in place. The company name had been changed to Steve Taylor and Son. Ty was given greater supervisory responsibility out on the dock and was spending time with his father at the drafting table. Steve didn't think his son would ever actually design the boats, but he wanted him to know enough about the process to be able to see whether they were designed well after Steve was no longer doing it.

Ty was given keys to the company offices, his name was put on the company bank accounts, and he was given title to a brand-new Camaro.

There was no discomfort between father and son at all. If anything, it was Raul who seemed put off kilter by the presence of Ty in their lives. Steve decided that Raul might have had ambitions vis-à-vis the company, but if so, that was really just too bad for him. Steve had never intended to make Raul a partner in that sense. Steve had thought of making Raul his life partner, though, and this is where the presence of Ty was having a bit of negative effect.

Not that Ty was a problem. The problem was Raul. Raul just wasn't as impetuous and forceful as he had been before—and he didn't surprise Steve with the sex urge as often.

They still fucked often enough for Steve, though—so if there was a problem, Steve saw it as Raul's problem.

At least he did until the evening he came home from work and decided to do a wash and went into Ty's room to gather up anything he'd thrown on the floor that might need laundered—and found the ripped briefs.

They were laying right there at the side of the bed. A rip in the rear. Right where Raul liked to split them apart when he fucked Steve. Steve had learned early that Raul had this fetish with briefs.

These weren't Steve's briefs, though. These were Ty's briefs. And Raul and Ty had gone off early that afternoon to look at a boat that might need reconstructed up on Long Key. Or at least that's where they had told Steve they had gone.

* * * *

Steve thought that he could live with sharing his son with Raul. And if that had been what it was about, maybe it all would have worked out.

The next time Ty told him that he and Raul had to drive off somewhere for the afternoon, Steve waited a half hour and then drove back to the house. He parked down the street and approached the house from the back and quietly entered through the kitchen.

They were there. The company's pickup was in the drive. And Steve could hear them, down the hall, in Ty's room. He quietly approached the door and peeked through the half-closed door, around the hinges. What he saw caught him by surprise and was something he couldn't forget.

Both men were naked, their bodies beautiful, Ty's lighter skin on Raul's. But what was unsuspected was that it was Raul who was lying back on the bed and Ty rubbing his briefs on Raul's face for him to sniff them and then pulling the briefs up Raul's legs. And then turning the Cuban hunk over onto his belly. Ty's mouth went to the bulge of Raul's buttocks and he was ripping a hole in the cotton material with his teeth, while Raul was moaning and writhing under him, which only increased as Ty's tongue went to Raul's hole through the rip in the briefs.

Steve watched in utter surprise and arousal as Ty then straddled Raul's hips with his thighs and began to fuck the Cuban through the rip.

The father backed away from the door and quietly retreated down the hall. He jacked himself off when he reached his car, unable to get the image of the two men fucking out of his head—not Raul fucking Ty, but Ty fucking Raul.

Steve did his best over the next few days to forget and not reveal what he had seen, what he knew. But it was becoming an obsession, and one that Raul could not miss. Sex with Raul wasn't the same now. And Steve's obsession was not that Ty was fucking Raul, but that Ty wasn't fucking Steve. Steve knew it was wrong, but it wasn't like he had raised Ty as his son. He hadn't seen Ty since he was ten. Ty had grown up to be another man, not his son. Just a stranger. A gorgeous stranger with a master cock that he was using to cock the man who was cocking Steve.